


The 7:14 to London

by trustsherlockholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:29:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustsherlockholmes/pseuds/trustsherlockholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's five in the group and four seats to a booth. Some improvising has to be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 7:14 to London

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt borrowed from imagineyourotp.

The last thing the poor folks on the Bradford train probably wanted to see was five very loud, very rowdy teenage boys strutting down the middle of the aisle, hands in pockets or patting down their jackets for cigarettes, despite their teacher firmly knocking it into their thick skulls that smoking was strictly prohibited on this trip, as they were still under the supervision of school time, and something about the third passage of the student handbook and a bunch of other fleeting things they hadn’t caught because the train had arrived and there was an unorganized wave of people trying to shove their way inside to catch a good seat.  
The boys weren’t so lucky, and were already searching the last compartment for any spot when Mike swatted Lestrade’s elbow with the back of his hand, finger jabbing in the air toward an empty table in the back. Steps quickening, they hastily moved to the booth, and each of them wore a matching frown as they were confronted with a very real problem.  
“Well, there’s five of us,” Kyle announced after a stretch of silence, and Sherlock snorted derisively, much to John’s amusement. “And four seats…what do we do?”  
“One of us can sit somewhere else,” Mike offered, craning his neck to scour the compartment for a possible spot they had missed. There weren’t any. And meeting the heated gaze of an agitated elderly woman sent his eyes snapping forward once more.  
“Alright, here’s what we’ll do,” Lestrade started, moving to sit in the farthest seat on the right side of the booth. “I’ll sit here, Kyle, you sit by me. Mike, you sit by the window over there. John, you take the aisle seat. And Sherlock can sit in your lap.”  
John flushed horrendously as Mike and Kyle shuffled passed him, plopping down in their assigned seats. He didn’t bother to glance over at Sherlock to read the boy’s expression. “Greg, surely there’s another way to—“  
“Oh, stop it. Sherlock is the lightest and by default you’re the strongest. We’re all among friends here. We promise not to tell the school of your little romantic endeavor,” the boy teased, though there was a frightfully knowing glint in Lestrade’s eyes that unnerved John.  
“John, honestly, it’s _me_ ,” Sherlock said from behind him, shoving against his back. “We’ve been friends since we were seven and you’ve done far more incriminating things with me.”  
The blush intensified, if that were possible, and John hurriedly took his seat as the train lurched into movement, causing Sherlock’s descent onto his lap to be clumsy and awkward. But it appeared to entertain the other three, who were cackling as Kyle fished out a deck of cards and spread them over the table.  
The ride waned on, smattered with embarrassing stories of girls shagged in the back seats of their parent’s cars and immature jokes that Sherlock didn’t find in the least bit funny. Somewhere along the way, his arm had draped behind John’s neck for balance, and if the short blond noticed when the pad of Sherlock’s thumb began to draw absentminded patterns on his nape, he said nothing of it.  
Over time, the orange burst of sunset visible outside the window melted away to night, and their voices naturally calmed to match the tired atmosphere of the compartment. Mike had just sorted through his newly dealt hand when he peered up to ask John a question, and stopped short.  
Sherlock, with his lanky, immense frame, was curled up against John like a contented cat, his inky curls tucked beneath the boy’s chin. John’s steeling arms were wrapped around the lithe torso, head tipping down as he embraced Sherlock almost possessively, his soft breath tousling the hair under his nose. The rattling of the train paired with the exhaustion of the day had proved too much for the duo.  
Smiling widely, Mike nudged Kyle, nodding toward the pair. The boy looked, snorting a giggle. Lestrade was grinning like a madman, phone opened to the camera option as he snapped a few images, making sure to save each and every one.  
“You’re not going to send those to anyone, are you?” Mike asked, worry touching his tone.  
“No, Mike,” Greg assured, thumbs tapping idly as he attached his favorite of the images to both John and Sherlock’s number, the telltale chime ringing out as it sent. “It’s the business of the idiots when they decide to finally admit they’re mad for each other.”  
“You think they’ll ever learn?”  
Lestrade glanced over just as John stretched, arms smoothing up and down Sherlock’s back before clutching him closer. The genius never stirred.  
“Call it a hunch, but I think they will. Your move, Kyle.”


End file.
